Amaranth Red
by anyadoll
Summary: Patrick Jane wants nothing more than to escape the darkness...but can he?


A/N: My very first Mentalist fic, and as I just actually started watching the show about 2 episodes ago, I'm still playing catch up soooo…I guess take this at face value. References for Bloodshot included. (All Fall Down lyrics by One Republic).

Amaranth Red

_God love your soul and your aching bones  
Take a breath, take a step, maybe down below  
Everyone's the same  
My fingers to my toes  
We just can't get a ride  
But we're on the road_

He was unusual, spontaneous, hyper, irritating, and unfortunately, almost always right. Their cases closed faster than they rolled in. Despite being chewed out by Minnelli every so often, she could tell it would be hard to push Minnelli far enough to fire the infamous mentalist. After all, strange habits aside, the positive feedback and praise had Minnelli granting her team a little more freedom than usual.

It didn't mean Lisbon approved of her consultant's behavior.

She'd seen a different Patrick Jane lately though. After the van explosion, after finding out that the boy blamed _him_, Jane had taken it upon his already self loathing state to carry the burden of this boy's tragedy as well—ten fold. From Lisbon's vantage point, she could see his downcast gaze as he walked towards 'his' couch. Van Pelt would try to catch his eyes, convey how sorry she was, for allowing herself to be manipulated by a man she should have been able to trust. Several times the young woman attempted to talk to the forlorn mentalist, and each time she'd shake her head and return to her own desk. Rigsby had taken to shadowing Van Pelt, as if to protect her from herself—Lisbon did not want to touch that subject at all. Interoffice romance was frowned upon, but Lisbon, hard ass as she could and tried to be, didn't have the heart to separate them. When the time came she would simply-albeit sternly-tell them to keep it out of the workplace. They would listen.

But that was when something clicked in the senior agent's mind. Van Pelt had Rigsby to tell her it wasn't her fault. She didn't know her boyfriend had used her to get to Jane. Didn't know his true intentions.

Who did Jane have? A red smiley face smeared on a once joyful home now frozen in time? Red John's ever present waking reminder that Jane had nothing, and worked only to avenge his family. Since that confession, when he told her what he planned to do, she lived in fear of the call that would change everything. How long until she'd have to arrest him for murder, justified or not? How long until she had to point her gun on a man she'd come to know as more than just a part of her team? He downplayed the flirting, she kept her distance, and yet everyone had their own assumptions about the pair.

No matter how much she pretended to detest his annoying personality and enchanting mind tricks, no matter that she lied to herself every day, no matter that he knew what she was too afraid to admit, Jane would never cross that line. No matter how she felt. No matter how _he _felt. Because of that confession she began to understand—it was a warning. Jane cared for her, but would not act on it. He would not love her just to leave her for a life sentence in a jail cell.

More than anything she wanted to tell him that what he thought best for her was not his decision.

Lisbon sighed, returning to the reports she had yet to make a dent in—dwelling on futures that could never be wouldn't get them done; it turned out to be another case-less day.

By five, Cho peeked into her office, asking if she wanted to join Rigsby, Van Pelt, and himself for drinks. She declined with a lame excuse about cleaning her apartment, before he shrugged and ran to catch up with the team. Jane hadn't made a peep all day, and Lisbon figured he'd left earlier, or went to harass someone else for once.

Reports and files and bag in hand, she left the office. Wine and a long bath sounded amazing.

And, she found out soon enough, too good to be true.

When she stepped into her apartment building, searching for her key through the clusters of others on the small silver ring, she nearly tripped over the person sitting against the wall. Lisbon gasped, dropping one of the folders and her keys as she tried to gather her bearings.

"Jane! What are you doing here?" She demanded, stooping to collect the scattered papers. His head lolled to face her, watching her with a blank expression.

"I wanted to see you," he answered tonelessly. She stood, sliding her key into the lock.

"Jane? Seriously, you had over eight hours to talk to me and you choose now to come see me? It can't wait until tomorrow?" As much as she found him just as charming as the women he outright flirted with did, she was not in the mood to deal with…well…his mood right now. He didn't respond, and sighing, she turned the knob and pushed the door open—leaving it ajar as an invitation if he decided to follow.

Skipping the bath idea, Lisbon simply changed into a favorite green tank top and black sweatpants, pouring herself a large glass of red wine as she did. He wouldn't ruin her whole night.

The door was closed when she passed it on the way to the kitchen. Maybe he'd left? Maybe—no, he stood still as a statue against her fridge, waiting for her to return.

"You really should wear green more often," Jane whispered. She felt a chill wash over her, but found his words to be strange more so than complimentary or touched with his usual flirtatiousness. Lisbon faced him, leaning against her counter and placing her wineglass on the clean white surface.

"Jane, what's wrong? Why did you come here? You're…scaring me a little," she answered honestly.

"I don't know if…I don't know if I'm helping anyone anymore Lisbon. I nearly got Van Pelt and Rigsby killed because I scammed a kid's mother almost a decade ago! I ruined his life, Lisbon—how many more people's lives am I going to ruin in the days and months and years to come? Or how many have I already ruined pretending to talk to dead people and predict horribly skewed futures for money! I couldn't even save my own family!" She flinched. His bitter tone rose with every self deprecating sentence. "How long before I get you killed?"

Her head snapped up, eyes locking with his. "Hey! I can take care of myself Jane—I've done a pretty damn good job of staying alive for the past thirty-seven years without your help—I'll be just fine! Get over yourself Jane. Not everything is your fault, so stop blaming yourself for every wrong done to humanity!"

Jane looked away, unable, for once, to be the one to stare down the other. She was the only person he'd ever met that could do that to him—force him to be the weak one. The one that needed saving for once. Maybe he was being masochistic, knowing that he liked when she yelled at him and when she forced him to look at his life with a different perspective. Lisbon challenged him, and he refused to back down from a challenge. He didn't really know what he was asking for when he found himself driving to her apartment complex earlier. It seemed lately that his aimless wondering always led him to the same place. Or, more accurately, the same person.

And she was a good, beautiful, caring person that didn't deserve a man who intended to become a murderer when the time came. He could almost hear his wife yelling at him, telling him to move on, that revenge would get him nowhere and that he didn't want to become like the monsters they put away. He didn't belong in the darkness. That wasn't what he was supposed to be. But then reality would sink in, staring at the crude red face on the wall day in and day out. No more anniversaries with his wife, birthdays for his baby girl, first days of school, kisses before work…no more because of a red smiley face.

Before Jane realized what he was doing, he punched the wall behind him. Once, twice, three times before he saw red paint on the white wall. Not paint. Blood. Blood and screaming.

Lisbon was astonished, frozen by the scene unfolding before her. She watched the wheels turning in his mind, like a bomb, waiting for the fuse to burn and explode. And it did. It was a violence she'd never seen in Patrick Jane before, and she didn't know what to do about it. But by the fourth time his fist connected with her defenseless kitchen wall, she was screaming for him to stop, to just look at her. He stopped, but focused on the red streaks he'd left on the pristine white paint, fists still clenched.

"Patrick?" she whispered breathlessly, cautiously edging towards his shaking form. "Jane?"

"I don't want to be a monster," he stated, breathing heavily, transfixed by his outburst.

"You're not," Lisbon soothed, keeping her distance still. "You could never be a monster."

She reached for his hand, knuckles bleeding profusely and already swelling where he dislocated one of his fingers. The minute she did, he whirled on her, pulling her small form tightly to him. Her ribs began to hurt and her lungs stung in protest as she fought to loosen his grip. "Jane, I can't breathe," she gasped into his ear.

Slowly, he pulled away. "I'm sorry. About…everything," he said, eyeing the damage he'd done.

She shrugged off the apology, grabbing his hand. "Let's get this fixed first okay?"

He nodded, allowing her to pull him towards her bathroom. "Sit," she commanded once they reached it, prowling through the medicine cabinet. He'd have to go to the ER later, but his current state and last trip to the hospital had resulted with his insulting every nurse and doctor on the floor, and she didn't want to have to deal with that until tomorrow. "My kitchen wall can't fight back, you know."

Jane gave a short laugh. "I beg to differ," he responded, waving his bleeding hand. Lisbon rolled her eyes before she started cleaning his knuckles off.

"Jane, what's really wrong with you lately?"

He tensed again. "I've been…debating a future…I guess."

"A future? Or your future?"

He hissed when she put pressure on the dislocated index finger of his right hand. Adrenaline gone, the blistering pain was taking effect. "I guess they're both my future, but I'm stuck in the middle and I can't figure out which way to go anymore. There are…complications on both sides now. Too much to lose, too many variables to consider."

Lisbon grabbed gauze from the top shelf and set about wrapping his hand. "Well, what are your options?"

Jane hesitated, staring at a point beyond her shoulder. "One road leads to home, the other leads to a different home."

"Okay, it's late Jane, if you keep speaking in riddles the only road you're going to be on is the one I'm going to kick you to," Lisbon replied sarcastically. "Done, but tomorrow you need to get that looked at by a real doctor."

He nodded, following her back to the kitchen where she pulled another wineglass from a cabinet without asking, pouring the tart red liquid for him. She swallowed what remained of her first glass and refilled it.

"Do you really want to know Lisbon?"

She wanted to say no. Half the time she wished she'd never met Patrick Jane and all the demons he brought with him. The other part didn't care about the demons and the impending doom they brought. She knew she could never change him, and that left them, perpetually, at square one.

"Yes, I want to know."

Jane set his wineglass down, red wine sloshing over the rim. "Revenge has been my goal since I started at CBI; you're using me for information, and I'm using you as well. Kind of a twisted symbiosis I guess. Future one, I stay until we find Red John, until I can kill him with my own two hands for my wife and my daughter —and I go away forever, life in prison—nothing to lose."

He watched Lisbon cringe at his harsh, stoic explanation of his first debatable option. But she said nothing. "Future two scares me more. With future two, I have everything to lose, because I haven't gained any of it." She glanced up at the blue eyed man in front of her, curious as ever. "I told myself a long time ago that because I had one goal, I couldn't let anyone interfere with it. I didn't let anyone in. And then…then I met this sarcastic, no bull, tough as nails, beautiful woman that didn't flinch when I told her my plan. She didn't think less of me for it. I told myself she wouldn't change me. But being around her, I don't know if I could do that to her. If I start something with her, I want to finish it, because that's what she deserves."

Teresa Lisbon was speechless, waiting for the punch line of a bad joke. It was a long moment before she realized he would give up his quest for revenge if she wanted him as much as he wanted her. She touched her cheek, feeling the tear tracks on her face. They'd had their disagreements, petty fights, and the sacred untouchable moments witnessed only by the two of them. He would always love his wife, but he was willing to give her a larger place in his life. She didn't have to compete with a ghost. She sighed, processing her reply.

"God, you're an idiot Jane. You didn't have to attack my wall to tell me…" she shook her head, a small, timid smile on her face. "I like future two, Patrick Jane. I like it a lot."

His boyish, charming grin blossomed brightly before he crushed her to him again. Lisbon laughed lightly, and he relished the sound. He wouldn't have given up revenge for anyone less, and wondered, idly, if the higher powers his wife and Lisbon believed in had concocted this—a way out. A way to live as happily as anyone was capable of living.

"Thank you," he whispered to nothing and no one in particular. He brushed her hair away from her face, kissing her forehead, her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, before she pulled his lips to hers.

The next time he visited his wife's grave, he brought Lisbon with him. For a long while the pair sat in silence, comforting and content, for once. He explained his future to his wife, telling her he wouldn't stop searching, but wouldn't let himself be consumed by the darkness. He wouldn't be the monster that Red John was. He had too much to live for now. When the breeze picked up, carrying blossoms of a nearby tree with it, he knew she approved.

When he was finished, he left one amaranth flower on the headstone. Lisbon looked at him curiously, wondering what the meaning signified—Jane, she knew, always had a reason.

And he did not disappoint. The amaranth, he told her as they walked to her car, was believed to have grown on Mount Olympus, and according to Greek Mythology, was the flower that never died.

It forever represented immortality, and an everlasting love.


End file.
